


Remember Me When The Sun Comes Up

by birdienz



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, a touch of angst, resolutions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 12:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15773919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdienz/pseuds/birdienz
Summary: Three months after the fall of WCKD, Thomas is still struggling to move forward with his life, the guilt of not being able to save everyone weighing down on him. During a supply trip to the mainland, he finds himself back at the camp where he had spent six months finding a way to save Minho.Knowing that Newt had hidden something there amongst his belongings, Thomas goes searching for it, uncertain of what he will discover.What he finds is so much more than he expected, but perhaps it can give Thomas the chance to finally accept everything that happened that day, and maybe it can help him find a way to finally let go.





	Remember Me When The Sun Comes Up

 

The sand was crisp beneath his feet; still wet from the morning’s high tide, it made a slight crunching sound as he walked towards the edge of the campsite. It was weird to be back - for six months this place had been a home of sorts. As close to a home as one can get in a burning world.

An eerie silence had settled over the camp. Behind him, the waves crashed against the aging wooden pillars of the wharf, and for a brief second, he thought he could hear a bird chirping, but as he moved closer to the old camp the sounds faded behind him, leaving only a slight rustling of leaves in the soft breeze. There would be no one in the buildings which lay ahead of him. There hadn’t been for a long time.

Three months. It had been three months since WCKD had fallen, since the day he had lost two of his closest friends. Three months since his own world had fallen apart, and now he was no closer to putting the pieces back together.  There had been days when all he had wanted to do was forget it all. Forget the maze. The Scorch. Forget watching Teresa fall into the darkness. And at times he had almost wanted to forget Newt.

Maybe that was the problem. Mixed in with his denial, his anger at WCKD, and his losses, there was a shred of guilt as if it was his fault his friends had died. He should’ve saved Newt. He should have done more. He’d thought it through hundreds of times, playing out every possible scenario in his head. If he’d done one thing different then maybe Newt would have made it. The two of them had depended on one another, and he had let Newt down. He had failed him. So, Thomas had tried to forget, to lock it all away but it didn’t work. Despite Newt’s letter telling him to be happy, he found himself stuck, struggling to accept the death of his best friend, consequently punishing himself for not being able to save him. He couldn’t let go. 

 

The occasional trip had been made back to the mainland since the fall of the Last City, both for supplies and the search for more survivors and immunes. Thomas had been once, with both Minho and Gally. There, they had managed to salvage some old medical supplies, in the hope that with time, they would find a way to recreate the cure. He had been too late to save Newt, but maybe he could save others like him.

When Vince had mentioned going back to the campsite to collect a piece of equipment during their next supply trip, Thomas had most certainly not wanted to go. Which was why he was completely surprised when he found himself saying “ _Count me in.”_  Yet as difficult as it was being back, in a way it felt good. Closing his eyes and breathing in the salty sea air, it was almost as if Thomas had never left – Brenda would still be reading some old dusty book, Fry would be in the kitchen, and Newt would be scribbling _something_ in his notebook. But almost wasn’t good enough.

  

Thomas walked ahead of the group, his eyes passing over different places yet he tried to keep them moving, searching. He wasn’t looking for Cranks, though. They couldn’t have made it here. He was avoiding the memories.

Each time his eyes stayed still on a spot, even for a second, a memory threatened to push itself forward into his consciousness, bringing with it a painful mix of emotions which for so long he had tried to not feel. To his left were the rocks where he and Newt had watched the sunrise one morning, huddling together - the thin itchy blanket wrapped tightly around their shoulders. It had been beautiful, a moment that at the time Thomas had never wanted to end. But now, the peace that he had felt was tinged with sadness, the realisation that he could never share a moment with Newt again causing tears to prickle at the back of his eyes.

To his far right sat the rusting tin shed which had housed their cars. It felt like only yesterday that he had snuck into that shed late at night, ready to embark on an incredibly stupid solo expedition to save Minho. But he hadn’t been alone. Newt had been there, waiting for him. He had known exactly what Thomas was going to do, and deep down Thomas himself knew that Newt would be there. Back then, he had hoped he would be. Now, he wished Newt had stayed behind.

But that was the past. The past was gone. All of this, the life that he had once had here, it was all gone. Who he was then and who he was now, those were two very different people. Back then, he had Newt. Back then, he still believed he could save them all.

 

The rest of the group were heading into the main building, but Thomas pulled back, instead veering off to the right, moving towards the sleeping quarters. The hammocks were gone, taken with the group to Paradise, but still, so much remained. Decorations, empty crates, the odd scrap of clothing that someone had deemed too worn to take. Most of the personal items, however, had also been taken to their new home– those who had waited behind when the Last City was being destroyed had been able to gather up what was important to them. But Thomas hadn’t. And neither had Newt.

Having made such an irrational and sudden decision to make the journey to save Minho, Thomas had focused on what he had thought were the necessities – food, water, transport, and weaponry. He’d been so focused on saving Minho he’d forgotten to notice what had been important to him in the present. He’d dragged Frypan and Newt, Brenda and Jorge into the mess too, snatching them from the comfort and safety of the camp and into the hell which had lain in wait beyond WCKD’s walls. And now that hell would haunt their dreams for the rest of their lives.

So, like Thomas, Fry and Newt had also been unable to gather up their personal possessions in time. Well, that’s what he had thought. But as time had passed after Newt’s death, he had started to realise that maybe it wasn’t a complete accident that Newt hadn’t taken anything with him. Maybe, before they had even failed to save Minho the first time on the train, Newt had known that he was going to die. So, he had left his stuff behind, leaving it for the next strangers passing through to find. His way of leaving a mark.  

Thomas slowly made his way towards the back of the sleeping quarters, uncertainty creeping into his thoughts. He wasn’t even sure he could find where Newt had hidden it, but even if Thomas could, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was really inside. Shifting a couple of dusty crates out of the way, he found himself in Newt’s corner. The three of them, Thomas, Frypan, and Newt, had taken a spot in the far back, near the door. Every night, nightmares had crept into their dreams, waking them up with silent screams. So they’d found a spot near the back of the room, away from all the commotion and right next to the back door, allowing for them to escape the thick, suffocating air at night and disappear silently out to the sea. It was in those moments, watching the sun begin to rise each morning, that Thomas had felt the most peace. More often than not, Newt would be there with him – sometimes they talked, other times nothing needed to be said. Simply being with one another was enough. At times, it had felt like it was just the two of them in the whole world. What Thomas wouldn’t give to feel that again.

Snapping out of it, he turned around slowly, his eyes searching for places where Newt might have hidden it. Probably not on the floor – they’d discovered that the sand had a sneaky way of getting beneath the cracks in the door – anything left on the floor for more than a week was bound to be in a bad condition. Although what he was looking for wasn’t big, it wasn’t exactly small either, leaving only a few places where Newt could have put it.

 

Around a month before the train heist, Thomas could remember overhearing Newt asking Vince for a notebook. He had been on his way back to the planning room after taking a lunch break with Brenda and Fry, but Newt had gone back early. Paper was not exactly easy to come by in a world barely able to hold on to survival, so when he heard Vince leave out the side door he had assumed Newt’s request had been denied, but he was wrong. Perhaps Vince had seen something in Newt’s eyes, a look of desperation or sadness, because moments later he had come back, and as Thomas peeked in through the crack in the door, he could see Vince holding out a small, tatty notebook.

occasion, found Newt hunched over, pencil in hand.

Now, Thomas held that very same book in his hands. He had no idea what was inside. He and Newt had talked about a lot of things, told one another anything from their most embarrassing thoughts to their darkest fears, but this notebook was not something they had discussed. Thomas had always wanted to ask Newt about it, he was an extremely curious person after all, but something had always stopped him. Now, as he sat down on the floor, stretching his legs out in front of him, his curiosity finally got the better of him.

He opened it to the first page.

His heart started to pound. Anger. Denial. Sadness. Emotions flooded through his body, overwhelming his mind. _Breathe in. Breathe out_. 

 

Newt had known. All this time, he had _known_.

Newt had known he was going to die.

 

Scribbled across the first page in Newt’s cursive handwriting was ‘ _Flare?’_ But the question mark had been crossed out. Below it read ‘ _One month from the proposed date to rescue Minho. What I thought was simply an itchy bite seems to be much more. I probably have two months left at this rate.’_  The notes continued down the page, short and straight to the point. Classic Newt.

_‘Two weeks until Minho’s rescue. The veins around the wound have darkened a little. Mentally, nothing has changed.’_

_‘Rescuing Minho tomorrow. Perhaps the stress of it all has accelerated the virus slightly. Although it’s not bad, it is now definitely identifiable as the Flare. Short headache today too, followed by a brief lapse in memory. Nothing bad. Perhaps another two weeks left. I look forward to seeing Minho again, and I am excited to see how happy the others will be when we rescue him.’_

The last entry read,

_‘We didn’t get Minho. Struggled to keep hand steady when welding on the train. Won’t make it to_ _. Just need to hold on long enough to rescue Minho_ _. I owe him that much.'_

 

Thomas closed the book. That was enough.

 

But as he went to put it back in the slot, leave it for another person passing through to one day find, he noticed a bookmark, about halfway through. What else could Newt have put in the book?

Opening it, he let out a small gasp, a lump quickly forming in his throat. _Of course_. He now understood why Newt had wanted the notebook in the first place, why Newt had kept it such a secret. It was starting to make sense. He thought back to what Newt had written in his letter,

_‘I want you to know that I'm not scared. Well, not of dying, anyway. It's more forgetting. It's losing myself to this virus, that's what scares me.’_

Newt hadn’t wanted to forget. So, he’d found a way to make sure he never truly could – by drawing. That way, as he slowly slipped away, his memories would remain. Something for him to hold on to as the virus ripped away his humanity.

Thomas ran his fingers lightly over each page – seeing these drawings made him feel like Newt was right there beside him again. But they were more than just drawings, they were his memories.

Each picture was remarkably detailed, making Thomas feel as if he himself were in that moment. There were some places and people he didn’t recognise – maybe he hadn’t noticed them at the time, too caught up in the commotion to see everything. But Newt had. Newt always had.

Going back to the beginning of the notebook, Thomas felt a small ache in his heart as he looked at the first drawing. _Minho_.

He looked peaceful – although he wasn’t smiling he seemed at ease, a distant look in his eyes. Perhaps, for a fleeting moment, his mind had taken him far away, away from the horrors chased after him day and night, allowing for a brief moment of calmness and safety. Newt had captured that perfectly. Thomas had never realised Newt was such a good drawer – sure, he’d helped with the maps but Thomas had never thought much of it. But this, this was something else. It was like Minho was right there in front of him, clear as day. 

He could feel the ache spreading through his body as he struggled to hold back the tears. Newt had probably been so worried he would never have the chance to see Minho again that he'd made sure it was the first thing he drew - that way, no matter how bad things got, he could never forget his friend.

 

The next few pages were filled with drawings of the Glade. The sleeping quarters, the vines where Newt had worked, the council hall filled with boys. Alby was in there, looking up - at what Thomas didn’t know. Perhaps Newt had drawn him to be looking towards the stars, hoping that’s where he was now.

Chuck. Gally. Winston. Ben. They were all in there. People Thomas himself had seen die right before him, and people he had never met, all of them almost coming to life on the pages in front of him. Under each drawing, Newt had scribbled their name, a way of making sure that he and anyone else who looked in this book knew who they were. This way, they could never be forgotten.

Following that were drawings from their short time out in the Scorch. Thomas had hated it out there; the way the sweltering sun had burned his skin, the painful red blisters taking weeks to heal over. How the violent, powerful winds sent dust particles, sharp as razors into his mouth and eyes, the sandstorms leaving him begging for clean air. He remembered looking out from the top of the sand dunes, just before Winston had collapsed, the desert stretching out in every direction, continuing beyond the horizon. There had been nothing out there. It had terrified him, made him feel so small and lost. Yet despite all of that, Newt had seen a beauty behind it that Thomas hadn’t.

Although the drawings were only done in pencil, in his mind Thomas could see it all in such vivid, vibrant colours. How the setting sun lit up the sky in reds and oranges and pinks. One of the drawings was of their night in the vast open Scorch, just before they had encountered Brenda and Jorge for the first time. But Newt hadn’t drawn the Gladers. He’d drawn the night sky, the light from the moon shining out from within the page as it fought to break through the thick, voluminous clouds. It really was magnificent.

The last few drawings were not as detailed as the others – perhaps Newt had been unable to tell at the time but the Flare virus must’ve already started to take control of his mind by then. Most of the time spent during those six months had been dedicated to rebuilding and planning a way to save Minho. But they’d still found the occasional moment of freedom where they could allow themselves to forget about everything else going on, and it was these moments that Newt had drawn. Simple things. Watching a small bird sitting in a tree. Brenda and Frypan laughing as they walked along the wharf. Jorge fixing a car. It was peaceful.

Finally, he turned to the very last drawing in the book, and even before his brain had the chance to fully process it, the tears were already threatening to spill over. He could remember the moment perfectly.

He’d left his hammock early in the morning, the nightmares once again having woken him. Heart pounding and sweat dripping down his forehead, he slipped out through the back door and walked along to the beach, settling himself down on the cool, damp sand.

He’d been there for a while, knees tucked tightly into his chest, staring out at the water just as the first traces of the morning light were beginning to show when he heard footsteps coming towards him.

Newt stood a few feet back, hovering near one of the rocks marking the boundary between the camp and the beach. Quite often they’d sat out there together, watching dawn break. But this time there was something different about Newt, something sombre. When Thomas had beckoned for Newt to join him on the sand, Newt had simply replied, _“Thanks, Tommy, but I think I’ll stay back here today.”_   And as Thomas had turned back around to face the water, he’d noticed Newt reaching into his pocket with one hand, pulling out a pencil, and the tatty old notebook clutched in the other.

Now, he was seeing that very same moment from a different perspective – Newt’s perspective. The whole time they’d been sitting there that morning Newt had been drawing, capturing the moment on the page in front of him.  As Thomas looked at the drawing, tears falling down his face, he came to the realisation that he no longer felt the anger and guilt that had weighed down on him for so long. But it also made him realise something else, something he had known all along but had never been willing to admit.

He missed Newt so much.

Each drawing he had looked at made him feel closer to Newt, helping him to understand how Newt had felt in the weeks leading up to his death. It had, in a strange way, helped dissolve the burden he had carried for so long.

Thomas wasn’t sure how long he sat there, looking through the drawings again and again until Minho found him. Looking from the old notebook clutched tightly in Thomas’ hands, up to Thomas' tear-stained face, he could see that Minho had worked out what the book meant.  Moving hesitantly, Minho lowered himself down next to Thomas. He could sense the same uncertainty he himself had felt as he made his way to find the notebook earlier. Handing it over to him, the pair sat in silence as Minho looked at the drawings, taking it all in.

After some time, Minho handed the book back to him and Thomas tucked it away, placing it gently back into the spot where he had found it. But this time, he didn’t cover it up with the loose plank.

They stayed there, the just the two of them, shoulder to shoulder with their backs pressed up against the rough wall. They didn’t need to speak. The silence was enough.  

Despite all the pain in his heart from what he had just seen, Thomas realised he could finally allow himself to heal. After all this time, he could finally let go of the guilt which was holding him back. These drawings, they’d _allowed_ him to do that.

They’d shown Thomas something he’d been struggling to see; hope. The possibility that there was still beauty in such a cruel, wicked world, and that things could eventually get better. All this time he’d been so caught up in the destruction surrounding him he hadn’t realised that the world itself had been slowly healing.

So maybe Newt hadn’t just drawn as a way of making sure he wouldn’t forget. Maybe he’d drawn with the hope that one day, strangers passing through would find his book. They would look inside it and then they did, they could see how beautiful it still was and it could give them the same hope it had given Thomas.

Perhaps, in his final moments, Newt had seen them again, the faces of those he had drawn. His friends. Both the lost and the living.  Newt had known that eventually, everything would be ok. And now Thomas knew that too. Maybe not today, maybe not next week, but with time things would be ok again.

 

So maybe, in another three months, Thomas would find himself sitting out on the beach in the Safe Haven, wrapped snuggly in an old, itchy blanket, watching as the waves crashed against the shore.

Newt was dead, and Thomas had finally accepted that. But he, like all the others they had lost along the way, wasn't truly gone – they lived on through the memories and stories of those they had left behind.

So, Thomas would sit there, by himself, and watch as the first rays of sun peeped out from beyond the horizon.

Newt had been right;

It really was beautiful.

 


End file.
